Longtime readers of this blog (and really, don’t you both have something better to do?) know that I have a somewhat adversarial relationship with the dog who lives with me. We generally match up pretty well – she’s got a few IQ points on me; I have opposable thumbs. We each have our days.
So I was raking leaves this morning, and she was on the rope, chewing on a stick. It was actually kind of nice – a brief respite, akin to the Christmas Truce of WWI. I almost broke down in a moment of sentimentality and scratched her behind her ears.
She’s attached to the rope by a caribiner, and she’s gotten off of it a couple times before. I saw it happen once, and I’m pretty sure she was just scratching with her hind leg and happened to pop the ‘biner off her collar. Random. No big deal.
Well, this morning, I walked into the house to get some coffee, and when I came back out, she was free. It was 30 seconds. THIRTY. FUCKING. SECONDS. I know that she’s opportunistic – she knows when I get in the shower that she’s got 10 minutes to wreak havoc. I’ve conceded that battle in our little war. But getting off her goddamned rope in 30 seconds … sweet pickled popcorn, I fear the worst.
So I ask this of you: if I should meet an untimely demise, please … PLEASE … don’t let the coroner brush off the dog as a ridiculous suspect. She’s wily, and she’ll make it look like I tripped over a beer bottle or had an unfortunate accident while eating toast in the bathtub. Don’t be fooled.
4 weeks ago